Home at Last
by KnightFury
Summary: I have been feeling a bit fragile, of late, and so I have been indulging in comfort pieces. This is the best, in my opinion.


"I know not why everyone complains about the north wind," I announce as I enter the sitting room of 221B. "I grant that it is the bringer of snow, which is most certainly bad enough, but it is not so bitter as the miserable east wind."

Watson is openly laughing at me. "Was the case a particularly mundane one?"

In response to his enquiry, I spread my hands. "My dear Watson, I could have solved it from the comfort of our sitting room in half the time that it took for me to reach the East Coast."

His brows furrow when a cold shiver ripples through me. "Give me your coat, remove your shoes and sit down, close to the fire. Would you like a brandy?"

I muffle a cough as I follow his instructions. "Yes, please."

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"There was not the time," I respond with another chill shiver.

I hear him tut with annoyance as he pours a small brandy. "That is why you felt the chill so keenly. You must eat, Holmes!"

"Do not scold, Watson. You know how it is, when I work to the Yard's time. It is all right for them; most of them have wives to pack them off with sandwiches. Besides, it was not just the temperature – that wind! 'Pon my life, Watson, it was like walking through a cold sandstorm! The wind was full of tiny ice particles – my face is raw!"

"Poor Holmes!" says he with feeling. "Here you are; drink this. I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to make you something warming to eat and then you should probably take an early night – you look quite weary."

As would he, had he been dragged across the country, forced into battling the elements and then rushed home again. But I am glad that I have spared my Boswell the discomfort and inconvenience. I shrug and silence a sneeze behind his turned back (I see no reason to worry him needlessly).

I listen to his footsteps as he hurries down the seventeen steps to talk to Mrs. Hudson. I hope that she is not going to force soup on me – there is nothing what so ever wrong with me.

"Are you still cold?" the doctor asks, when he returns to find me hunched in my chair. "Wait right there; I shall find you some blankets."

"Thank you."

"Were you not so weary, I might suggest that you take a nice, warming bath," says he as he comes back with a ridiculously high pile of rugs from the airing cupboard.

I shall have to see if I can perk up enough, with some food and warmth, because a bath would be heavenly.

"Was it really as cold outside as all that?" Watson asks, as he at last seats himself opposite me.

"It was horrible – particularly on the East Coast. I was not exaggerating, when I told you that there were ice particles borne on that miserable wind – my face is stinging still."

He nods. "You looked quite blue, when you came in, but you appear to be thawing, now. I shall have words with Gregson, when I see him next – if he expects you to solve his cases for him, he should look after you, or else you might be too unwell to assist the Yard the next time."

I frown at him and attempt to conceal a second sneeze before giving my reply. "Really, Watson! My constitution is a strong one, as you know."

"And I am a doctor, as well you know. Your constitution has its limits and you must surely know that to be so. Exhaustion does not one of us any good – neither, for that matter, does going without food or becoming too cold. Now, I suggest that you warm yourself, eat the supper that Mrs. Hudson gives to you and then go to bed – you look quite tired."

Though I should like to argue, to insist that he is in fact mistaken, I cannot quite stop the yawn which escapes me.

"Yes, I thought as much," says he in a kind tone. "Try to rest. I shall watch over you."

With a quiet sniff, I settle back and close my eyes. Perhaps the doctor will cease his fussing if I heed his advice. I must admit (though not to Watson) that my head has been paining me ever since Gregson and I started back for London and there is a fatigue pulling at my weary brain.

"Rest well," I hear my dear friend whisper as he ensures that the rugs will keep me warm.

As Morpheus claims me, I fancy for just a brief moment that a hand touches my forehead, while another takes my empty brandy glass from me. And then all is dark, silent and dreamless.


End file.
